How to Catch a Unicorn Adam Wallace

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On this bright and shiny m

I want something fun to d

so I’m riding on a

and I’m heading to the zo

The kids think they have spotted me—

I thought I’d blend in here!

I cannot let them catch me

disappear!
or my magic will disappear!

Is that a

UNICORN?
 I believe

they fart

GLITTER!

I heard they

can SHRINK!
First, I see my stripy cousins,

but then I have to f ly

.

As much as I like lemonade,

I have to say goodbye!

I with all my penguin pals

but these traps are every where!

I’ll head to the nocturnal house —

I hope it’s safe in there!

Wow, this room is super dark —

I’m glad I’m a .

Who knows what I might walk into

without my magic horn?

Now I’m off to see more friends.

It’s time to shrink my size!

But it sure is hard to see in here

with all these butterf lies!

My nose smells some

coming from the

Oh yum! I snag a littl

before I fly away!

What’s over there? A paddle boat?

This could be lots of fun!

I would stay in the water,

“
but my friends are roaring,
The gift shop makes

for your elaborate tra

but

to safely take the rap

I had fun with my friends today —

the zoo has been a blast!

You tried your best; your traps were smart,

but unicorns are

F A S T !
Now it’s tim

and maybe

Meanwhile,

I’ll be back
Copyright © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc. • Text by Adam Wallace • Illustrations by Andy Elkerton • Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc. • Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered

trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc. • All rights reserved. • The art was first sketched, then painted digitally with brushes designed by the artist. • Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of

Sourcebooks, Inc. • P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois • 60567-4410 • (630) 961-3900 • Fax: (630) 961-2168 • sourcebooks.com • Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the publisher.

Source of Production: Leo Paper, Heshan City, Guangdong Province, China • Date of Production: December 2018 • Run Number: 5013630 • Printed and bound in China. LEO 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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 LXVIII.

Here and everywhere

Have I been bidden
If I fell short of a dinner.
But the fragments are easily
Left for his faithful friend
When a man has eaten.

LXIX.

Fire is pleasant
To the children of men.
And the light of the sun,
If they enjoy
Health uninterrupted,
And live without crime.

LXX.

Perfectly wretched
Is no man, though he may be unhappy:
One is blessed in his sons;
One in his friends;
By competence one;
By good works another.

LXXI.

Better are they

Who live than they who are dead.
The living man may gain a cow.
I saw the fire blazing
In the hall of the rich man,
But death stood at the threshold.

LXXII.

The lame may ride;

The deaf fight bravely;
The one-handed tend the flocks,
Better be blind
Than entombed:
The dead win nothing.

LXXIII.

It is good to have a son

Although he be born
After his father’s death.
Seldom are the cairn-stones
Raised by the way-side
Save by the son to his father.

LXXIV.

There are two adversaries;

The heaviness of the brain,
And death by the bedside.
He who has gold for his journey
Rejoices at night
When he grows weary.

LXXV.

Short are the boat-oars;

· · · ·
Unstable autumnal nights.
The weather changes
Much in five days;
Still more in a month.

LXXVI.

Little enough knows he

Who nothing knows:
Many a man is fooled by another.
One man is rich,
Another man is poor;
But that proves not which has most wisdom.

LXXVII.

Thy flocks may die;

Thy friends may die;
So also mayest thou, thyself;
But never will die
The fame of him
Who wins for himself good renown.

LXXVIII.

Thy flocks may die;

Thy friends may die;
So also mayst thou thyself.
But one thing I know
Which never dies,
The doom which is passed on the dead.

LXXIX.

I saw the well-filled barns

Of the child of wealth;
Now leans he on the staff of the beggar.
Thus are riches,
As the glance of an eye,
They are an inconstant friend.

LXXX.

A foolish man,
If he gain wealth
Or the favour of woman,
Grows in self-esteem,
Though he understands nothing:
Forth goes he in arrogance.

LXXXI.

Know thou, that when

Thou enquirest of the runes,
Known to the world,
What the holy Gods did,
What the great Scalds have written,
It is best for thee to be still.

LXXXII.

Praise the day at eventide;

The wife when she is dead;
The sword when thou hast proved it;
The maid when she is married;
Ice when thou hast crossed it;
Ale when thou hast drunken it.

LXXXIII.

In wind cut thou firewood;

In wind sail the ocean;
In darkness woo a maiden,
For many eyes has daylight.
In a ship man voyages;
The shield it defends him;
The sword is for slaughter,
But the maid to be courted.

LXXXIV.

Drink ale by firelight;

On the ice drive the sledge;
Sell thou the lean horse
And the sword that is rusty;
Feed the horse at home;
Bed the dog in the court-yard.

LXXXV.

The word of a maiden

No one can trust;
Nor what a woman speaketh;
For on a turning wheel
Was the heart of woman formed,
And guile was laid in her breast.

LXXXVI.

A breaking bow;
A burning flame;
A hungry wolf;
A chattering crow;
The grunting swine;
The rootless tree;
The heaving billows;
The boiling kettle;

LXXXVII.

The flying spear;

Sinking waters;
One night’s ice;
The coiled-up snake;
The bride’s fond talk;
Or the broken sword;
A bear’s play;
Or a king’s son;

LXXXVIII.

A sick calf;
A freed bondsman;
A false fortune-teller;
The newly-slain on the field;
A bright sky;
A smiling master;
The cry of a dog;
A harlot’s sorrow;

LXXXIX.

An early sown field

Let no one trust,
Neither his son too soon;
The field depends on the weather;
The youth on his sense,
And both are uncertain.

XC.

A brother’s death,
Though it be half-way here;
A half-burned house;
A steed very lively,
(For a horse has no value,
If one foot stumble),
Are not so sure
That a man may trust to them.

XCI.

Thus is peace among women;

Like a fleeting thought;
Like a journey over slippery ice,
On a two-years-old horse
With unroughed shoes,
And ill broken in;
Or in wild tempests
Tossed in a helmless ship;
Or trying to capture
Deer mid the thawing snow of the hills.

XCII.

Now speak I truly,

For I know what I speak of,
Deceitful to woman is the promise of love:
When we speak fairest,
Then mean we foulest;
The purest heart may be beguiled.

XCIII.
He speaketh smoothly
Who would win the maiden;
He offers property,
And praises the beauty
Of the fair maiden;
He wins who is in earnest.

XCIV.

The love of another

Let no man
Find fault with.
Beautiful colours
Oft charm the wise,
While they snare not the fool.

XCV.

For that failing

Which is common to many
No man is blamed.
From the wise man to the fool,
’Mong all children of men,
Goes he, Love, the mighty one.

XCVI.

Thought alone knoweth

What the heart cherisheth,
It alone knows the mind.
No disease is worse
For the wise man
Than joy in nothing.

XCVII.

This I experienced
When I sate mid the rushes
Awaiting my love.
The good maiden
Was to me life and heart;
Mine is she no longer.

XCVIII.

The maid of Billing

White as snow found I,
In her bed sleeping.
Princely glory
Was to me nothing
If I lived not with her!

XCIX.

“To the court, Odin,

Come towards the eventide
If thou wilt woo me
All will be ruined
If we do not in private
Know how to manage.”

C.

Thither I sped again;

Happy I thought myself,
More so than I knew of,
For I believed
I had half won her favour
And the whole of her thoughts.

CI.

So again came I,
When the quarrelsome people
All were awake.
With candles burning
And piled-up firewood
Received she my visit.

CII.

A few morrows after,

When again I went thither,
All the house-folk were sleeping.
There found I a dog,
Of the fair maiden’s
Bound on the bed.

CIII.

Few are so noble

But that their fancy
May undergo change.
Many a good girl
When she is well known
Is deceitful towards men.
 CIV.

That I experienced
When the quick-witted maiden
I decoyed into danger.
She heaped reproach on me,
The merry maiden,
And I won her never.

CV.

Gay at home
And liberal, must
Be the man of wisdom.
Full of talk and pleasant memories
Will he be ofttimes,
With much cheerful converse.

CVI.

He is called Fimbulfambi
Who but few things can utter;
’Tis the way of the simple.
I was with the old giants,
Now am I returned;
There was I not silent,
With affluence of speech
I strove to do my best
In the hall of Suttung.

CVII.

Gunlöd gave me,

On a golden chair seated,
A draught of mead delicious;
But the return was evil
Which she from me experienced,
With all her faithfulness,
With all her deep love.

CVIII.

I let words of anger

By me be spoken,
And knawed the rock.
Above and below me
Went the paths of the giants;
Thus ventured I life.
 CIX.

Dear-bought song
Have I much rejoiced in;
All succeeds to the will;
Because the Odrejrer
Now have ascended
To the old, holy earth.

CX.

Uncertain seems it
If I had escaped
From the courts of the giants
Had I not been blessed by
The dear love of Gunlöd,
She, whom I embraced.

CXI.

On the day following

Went the Rimthursar
To ask the gods council,
In the halls lofty;
Ask whether Bölverk were
Come mid the mighty gods,
Or if Suttung had slain him.

CXII.

A holy ring-oath
I mind me, gave Odin.
Now who can trust him.
Suttung is cheated;
His mead has been stolen
And Gunlöd is weeping.”[49]
 III.

POEMS ON NORTHERN SUBJECTS.

LAY OF THE VIKINGS.

BY MRS. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.[50]

In an unceasing, ebbless flow, around

The peaceful homes of Thulé, her best safety
Roll Arctic billows, rearing giant crests
In proud defiance—bulwarks impassable
Against the intruder’s steps. Fiercely and bold,
Even as a lioness doth guard her ’fenceless young,
Do they, the unconquerable surges, foam and champ,
And keep unslumbering vigils round the graves—
The restless, storm-rocked graves—of the Vikings
Their sons—those tameless spirits of the past—
Whose dirge their sighing parent hourly waileth
As erst they rode exultant on his bosom.
Boldest and noblest of earth’s kind were ye—
Conquerors of nations—fathers of a race
Of giant princes—ah! how fallen now!
Meet were it that your honoured dust should slumber
In this your polar cradle; rocked by northern gales,
Lulled by the sighing surges whose strong hands
Have hung a cloudy curtain o’er your rest.
Meet were it that the springtide rain should weep
O’er the degeneracy of your race—
The scattered glory of your Fatherland!
Fitting were it that the dark thunder-cloud
Should be the swift-winged chariot upon which
Your spirits love to ride—your path meanwhile
Lit by the fitful rays of yonder cold
Mysterious, flickering night-lamp, Borealis.
Nought less sublime, less wildly grand than these
Would be in harmony with your proud spirits.
Would ye not laugh to scorn the spicy breezes
Of India’s drowsy clime, or soft Italia’s
Radiant skies?—and ah! methinks ye whisper,
Were but the ocean charmed, that he should cease
His mournful lullaby around your pillow;
Or did old Winter’s gales less rudely blow,
Ye then would rise in vapoury clouds, and leave
A land unworthy even to be your tomb.

VÍKÍNGA BRAGUR.[51]
Óðfluga hraðar
Öldur streyma
Íshafs hins nyrðra,
Og öflugust vígi
Byggja um kyrrar
Byggðir Thúlu.
Hamramar æ
Þær hreykja kollum,
Og öruggar varnir
Mót árásarmönnum
Búa, þær aldrei
Bila kunna.
Sem vakir ljónsinna
Varnarlausum
Ungum yfir
Með afarmóði,
Freyða svo öldur
Ósigrandi
Halda þær vörð
Um Víkinga leiði;
Því blunda í klettum
Brimi skelfdum
Harðúðgir niðjar
Frá horfnum dögum;
Fékk þeim ei hugur
Í brjósti bilað;
Harmar því móðer
Og hryggðar saungva
Aldrei fær slitið,
Er hún minnist
Þeirra, er áður
Ungir léku
Meginglaðir
Á móðurbrjósti.
Leit ei nokkur
Af niðjum jarðar
Aðra tignari
Eður knárri
Yður, sem þjóðir
Unnuð sverðum,
Feður jötna,
Er fólki styrðu.
Horrfinn er heiður,
En heiðraðar moldir
Náðu hvíld hæfri
Und norðurheimsskauti;
Í vöggu þeim velta
Vindar stríðir;
Vögguljóð kveða
Veinandi unnir,
Þær er með mundum
Meginstyrkvum
Lögðu skýblæur
Á leiði niðja.
Var það að verðúng,
Er varandi unnir
Yðar æ gráta
Ættar hnignun,
Og frama horfinn
Fósturjarðar.
Það og vel hæfði,
Er þrumuskýin,
Vagnar þau urðu
Vængjum búnir,
Yðar sem aka
Andar glaðir;
En lýsa á vegi
Ljósgeislar kaldir
Leiptrandi Norður—
Ljósa skærra.
Sízt fær lægra neitt
Eður svipminna
Yðar samboðið
Anda háum.
Munduð þér kýma
Megnum hlátri
Að ilmandi vindum,
Um er þjóta
Ofurdrúnga lopt
Indíafoldar,
Eður geislandi
Uppheims boga,
Yfir er breiðist
Ítalska grund.
Er mér sem heyri
Yður hvísla:
Ægir ef fengi,
Umvafinn fjötrum,
Sorgleg ei lengur
Súngið kvæði
Þau um hægindi
Heyrast yðar,
Og aldinn vetur
Ei ólma léti
Geysa svo vinda,
Sem gjörir hann nú;
Munduð þér þá
Í mekkjum sudda
Hefja látast
Frá hauðri burtn,
Yðra óhæfu
Gröf að geyma.

THE VIKING’S RAVEN.[52]

BY MRS. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.

Beside a weird-like Norway bay,

Where wild and angry billows play,
And seldom meet the night and day,
A Raven sat.

He was the last of all his race

That lingered in that lonely place;
Age, grief, were stamped upon his face,
Sad, desolate.

Yet to that darkling norland sky

He raised an undimmed, fearless eye,
As though he proudly would defy
And battle fate.

His mate long dead, his nestlings flown,

The moss had o’er his eyry grown;
And all the scenes his youth had known
Were changed and old.

For he had heard the vikings all

Responding to the mystic call,
That summoned to great Odin’s hall
Those heroes bold.

He oft had skimmed the Polar seas;

And Harold’s sail aye wooed the breeze,
To follow where the Raven flees
On tireless wing.

But victory ceased on them to smile.—

On Hialtland’s rugged, rock-bound isle
He saw them raise the funeral pile
 Of the Sea-King.

· · · ·

Once his unerring pinions led

To where the shafts of battle sped;
But, when the conquered Northmen fled,
He scorned to flee;

But watched where brave young Ingolf lies,

With drooping heart and fading eyes,
Pining for his native skies,
A captive he.

A maiden of the sunny South

There loved and would have freed the youth,
But he was wed to Gulda Brûth.
His norland bride.

And she, across the stormy main,

Had turned her weary eyes in vain;—
Her hero ne’er returned again:
And so she died.

No Saga tells where rests the brave,

No mourner weeps by Ingolf ’s grave;
The Raven’s sable pinions wave
There all alone.

And then he spread his pinions wide

Upon the free north wind to ride,
With mien erect, and eye of pride;
His task well done.

And nought around, howe’er so bright,

Could win his stay, or stop his flight
From where he saw the pole-star’s light
Shine o’er the north.

When, hark! a wild exulting cry

Falls on his ear; his piercing eye
A burning vessel can descry
That flashes forth,

Like to the fitful spirit-gleam

Of the Aurora’s restless beam;
But ah! he knows it is no dream,
And droops his wing.
Beside the blazing spectral pyre—
A spark from Baldur’s sacred fire
Lighteth to death a Norseman sire,—
Brave old Thorsteing.

His arms are folded o’er his breast,

And on his noble brow doth rest
The shadow from his warrior crest
That waves on high.

His glances on the ocean fell;

Fondly he marked its rising swell—
That ocean he had loved so well—
Then raised his eye.

And when he saw the faithful bird,

The soul of song within him stirred.

Hast thou once more returned,

Thou trusty friend, to me?
What news hast thou of Ingolf,
My son, the brave and free?
Hath he in battle fallen,
His good sword by his side?
Or, captive, is he sighing
To see once more his bride?

Ah! no, his soul would scorn

In captive chain to lie;
I know he hath been borne
To Valhalla’s halls on high,
And I’ll meet him in the sky
E’re the morn.

Alas! with us will perish

The Vikings’ race and name,
That long made foemen tremble
When Scalds rehearsed our fame.
And thou, dark bird of omen,
Back to our country hie,
And tell her recreant children
How Norsemen ought to die.
But to guard my mountain home
My spirit yet will soar,
And on old ocean roam
As in the days of yore.
Oft to visit yon loved shore
I will come.
The song hath ceased, and Thorsteing brave
Is sleeping now in Odin’s cave.

Athwart the sky the lightnings flash,

While down the Fiords the thunders crash,
And sullen waves in fury lash
The fretted shore.

Where is that Raven, grim and lone?—

Uprooted is the old grey stone.
Where late he sat, and he is gone
To come no more.

DEATH OF THE OLD NORSE KING.

BY A.J.S.

Haste, clothe me, jarls, in my royal robe;

My keen biting sword gird ye.
Haste! for I go to the Fatherland,
Both king of earth and sea.
My blade so true, with a spirit-gleam—
Death lurks in its skinkling fire—
I grasp thee now as of olden time
In conflict hot and dire.

I’ve trampled foes; from their blanchéd sculls

Now drain off the dark-red wine;
Fall bravely all in the battle field,
Be crowned with wreaths divine!
My eyes wax dim, and my once jet locks
Now wave with a silvery white;
Feeble, my arm cannot wield the blade
I dote on with delight.

Grim Hela breathes a chilling shade,

I hear the Valkyrii sing;
Now to the halls of the brave I’ll rise,
As fits an old Norse King.
Heimdallar’s ship, with the incense wood,
Prepare as a pyre for me;
Blazing, I’ll rise to the Odin halls,
At once in the air and sea!

They’ve lit slow fire in the incense ship;

The sun has just sunk in the wave;
Set are the sails, he is launched away,
This hero-king so brave!
The death chaunt floats in the deep blue skies,
All wild, in the darkling night;
Fearful there glares from the blazing ship
A wild red lurid light.

It shimmering gleams o’er the lone blue sea,

The flickers shoot wild and high—
Odin hath welcomed the brave old king
To his palace in the sky!
The bale-flames die, and a silence deep
Now floats on the darkness cold,
Where so fearless and free, on the deep blue sea,
Had died this Norse king bold!

1845.

Dauði gamals Norðmanna-konungs.[53]

1.

Skundið þér, jarlar!

Skjótt mig búið
Skrúðklœðum, beztu
Skarti jöfurs,
Og meginbitrum
Mœki girðið;
Því heim vil eg halda
Til húsa föður,
Á láði bæði og lög
Lávarður kjörinn.
Tryggvan, gljáandi
Tek eg mœki—
Af honum leiptrar
Ólmur dauði—
Hann vil eg nú
Í höndum bera,
Sem áður í grimmum
Oddaleikum.

2.

Hefi eg fjendur
Fótum troðna;
Myrkrauðar drekka
Megið nú veigar
Skýgðum af hausa—
Skeljum þeirra.
Hnígið sem hetjur
Í hildarleiki,
Örlög þá kalla,
Æðstum heiðri
Krýndir af goðum
Þeim á Gimli búa.
Daprast mér sjón
Og dökkvir áður
Leika silfurlit
Lokkar á höfði;
Armur aflvana
Ei fær valdið
Mœki, þeim unað
Mestum veldur

3.

Hefur upp myrkva

Frá Helju kaldan;
Að berst eyrum
Ómur Valkyrju;
Hefur mig hugur
Til hetjusala;
Svo ber Norðmanna
Nýtum jöfri
Aldurhnignum
Æfi Gúka.
Heimdalls þer snekkju
Hraðir búið,
Og ylmandi látið
Eldskíð loga;
Vil eg þar nar
Á vita brenna;
En hugur mig ber
Til hallar Óðins
Til upphimins jafnt
Og Unnar sala.

4.

Brennur skíðeldur
Á skipi kveiktur;
Mær hverfur sól
Í marar skauti;
Undin eru segl,
Ytt frá landi
Siglir þar hetjan,
Hilmir frægur.
Nötra ná hljód
Í niðmyrkvu lopti;
Bregður á býsnum
Í blindmyrkri nætur;
Leiptra geigvænir
Logar frá snekkju,
Og dökkrauðri miðla
Dauðaskýmu.

5.

Brunnar einskipa
Um bláan Ægi
Umvafin skeið
Í ógna blossum;
En Óðinn fagnandi
Aldinn sjóla
Til himinsala
Hefir leiddan,
Dvína burt logar
Og djúpri lystur
Megin þögn yfir
Myrkva kaldan;
Þar í myrkbláu
Mararskauti;
Hilmir Norðmanna,
Hetjan frægust,
Hugprúður, frjáls,
Réd Sielju gista.